In the Name of the Father
by dancing-latte
Summary: Set in 1297 Scotland and England. Erik McDestlar is one of the fearless leaders of the Scottish rebellion, seeking revenge on an English lord. In an act of fury, he takes the man's most precious item: his daughter. Erik/Christine.
1. Chapter 1

**_In the Name of the Father_**

**_Chapter One_**

_York, England_

_1297_

The sunshine streaming through the windows hit Christine's face like fire. She groaned and rolled over, pulling her pillow over her head. "Please, Madame Giry, just a few more minutes," she muttered. Her bed was so comfortable and warm, and she always hated to leave its loving embrace in the morning.

Antoinette Giry clucked her tongue. "_Non_, milady. It is already a half hour past your normal time, and your father beckons you to be down in an hour. Sleeping in is not an option." The older woman moved gracefully around the room, pulling the white curtains open to let in more sunshine.

Christine sighed and threw the covers off her bed. "Damn it all," she muttered.

Antoinette shook her head. She learned long ago that it was useless to reprimand the young duchess about her language. You see, Christine Adele Genevieve Mignonette Callia Opaline de Aldred Daae was _not _a lady. Of course, in the technical sense, she was of nobility. She was descended from a long line of lords and ladies on both of her parents' sides, French and Swedish on her father's; English and Norse on her mother's. Her father, Duke Charles Michelangelo of York, was a knight and war hero from King Edward I's army, and one of his childhood friends. Charles served many years as a knight in Edward's forces, until an arm injury in a battle to the death with a Scottish lord forced him into relaxation for several years. After his initial recovery, Edward invited his longtime comrade to his palace in London to receive a medal of honor and bravery. "It takes courage," Edward proclaimed to the crowd standing in the throne room, "to stand up to a brute, but it takes _honor _to kill him for his country!" While Charles felt a twinge of guilt for killing the aging lord with his family watching, he pushed his thoughts to the back of his mind and allowed the crowd to cheer him on.

While staying at the palace, he fell in love with a young Lady-in-Waiting named Christabel. Christabel came from a long line of Norse Vikings and English warlords, and came to the palace at the age of fifteen after her father was killed in battle. She was truly beautiful, with long, silky locks of gold and big eyes the color of the sea. Queen Eleanor, who was known throughout the castle to be an excellent matchmaker, introduced the twenty year old Christabel and the 30 year old Charles at one of her weekly balls. Christabel was instantly smitten with Charles's good looks and his charms, and remained his dance partner for the night, much to the disappointment of the many young lords there. She spent many of her minutes in her day talking to him in the gardens, where he could always be found reading a book or investigating the many flowers. Charles found himself slowly falling in love with the young beauty, and after a year, asked the king for his permission to marry her. Edward instantly consented, and the young couple was married within the remaining week.

Not a month after the wedding, Christabel found herself pregnant with her first child. The pregnancy was a comfortable one, and the delivery even better, as a boy was produced. Charles christened him Cedric Edmond, after his grandfather. The boy began to grow to be a strapping young lad, fascinated with every little thing around him, and five years later, Christabel found herself with child again.

These nine months were not as easy as her first had been. She was ordered to stay in bed by the doctor after the first five months, due to arising complications with her unborn baby. Christabel made herself sick by worrying about the baby night and day, and she finally found herself in labor. The delivery took nearly two days, in which Christabel drove herself hoarse by all the screaming she was doing from the extreme pain. Charles never left her side, and by the time the baby was finally out, his right hand was broken in five places from his wife squeezing his hand so hard. Christabel barely survived the delivery, and it was obvious to the midwife that she was fading fast due to the extreme loss of blood. Charles tearfully handed his dying wife the baby girl, and she kissed her forehead.

"Name her Christine," Christabel whispered with her last few breaths. "Name her Christine after me. Take good care of her, keep a hold on her, but don't smother her, this one is a fighter and she won't want to be tied down. See that she is married to a good man, Charles, and tell her every day that I loved her and Cedric with all my heart." She weakly wiped the tears from Charles's face. "Don't shed tears for me, my love. We'll meet again one day. Give me one last kiss." Charles obliged and gave his dying love a soft kiss on the cheek. Christabel smiled weakly, and with a final breath, died.

Charles never remarried. With a tiny Christine sat snuggled upon his lap, and a scrawny Cedric sitting curled up by his feet, Charles would sit in a large chair in his library by the roaring fire and tell his children stories. The unanimous favorite of the two children was the story of the little cellar girl who fell in love with the prince. Christine's face would light up whenever the prince came in at the end to save the young woman from her evil stepmother. "Will our stepmother be like that, Papa?" Cedric asked one evening.

Christine looked at her father with wide eyes, and he quickly answered, "Nay, my boy. Your mother was the only woman I ever loved, and it will remain that way. You don't have to worry about an evil woman capturing you."

Christine grew to be a lovely girl. She inherited her mother's beautiful blue eyes with the thick dark lashes and her father's impossibly curly chocolate hair. Her governess eventually gave up on taming the wild locks, and so Christine was allowed to leave them however she liked, which was usually pulled back with a ribbon. She had an extreme love and compassion for every animal around the castle, and would pounce on any stable boy that mistreated the horses. She was incredibly intelligent, for she had been schooled with Cedric from a young age. She read in the garden daily, and played her bagpipes (much to the chagrin of her very English father) numerous times throughout the week. Suitors came from miles around to see the intelligent young beauty, but all left in fits of rage, for there was just one problem:

Christine Daae was impossibly headstrong and stubborn.

She refused to wear dresses or play with her adorable dollies from the age of three. Instead, she preferred to wear breeches and tunics like the boys of the palace, and ride her horse bareback. She climbed trees, wrestled, swam and fought just as well as any other male her age. Numerous governesses left the castle in steaming fits of rage because of the cunningly coy mind tricks Christine had played on them. Since Charles was always away at battle, Christine was allowed to run wild and free as she pleased. That was, until Charles brought home Antoinette Giry.

Antoinette was not Charles's new wife. She was not his lover, nor his mistress. She was not Christine's new governess or caretaker, or a new maid or chef. She was an old friend of Charles's, from when he was traveling France as a young man. Antoinette's husband, a handsome knight, had been lost in battle ten years prior. At the time, Antoinette was still a young, beautiful maiden, but she could not marry again, for not a week after his death, she found she was with child. Months later, she gave birth to a beautiful, happy baby she named Marguerite. She had the looks of an angel - soft golden hair, big blue eyes, cherubim like skin - but the temper of Lucifer himself. Antoinette held her reigns tightly on her mischievous and scheming daughter, trying to tame her with no avail, until Charles wrote her of his problems with his own daughter. _"It seems," _he wrote, _"that we face the same dilemmas. Our daughters, however beautiful, have the tempers and wills of a powerful man. It has been brought to my attention by many a governess that if I do not attempt to fix this problem now, Christine, my beautiful, darling daughter, will never find a proper husband. I'm sure you've heard the same of your pretty little Meg. So, I thought to myself, why not raise them together? With their headstrong natures, the two will mesh nicely."_

And so, Antoinette Giry and her little Meg came to live at the castle of York.

The first time Meg and Christine met was like heaven and hell colliding. It was in the afternoon of a beautiful day in July, and Christine had just finished cleaning up from a fight with one of her father's pages. She won, of course, by a country mile, but, as usual, all the blame was placed on her. Her most recent victim of a governess, a stout, ruddy faced woman named Bridget, yelled at her until her voice was hoarse, and scrubbed her clean. "A fine way to act," she clucked, "when yo' father be a-comin' home! For shame!" Christine had rolled her eyes and lifted her heavy hair so the woman could wash behind her ears. Half an hour later, Christine was walking down the stairs into the greeting room, stuffed into a pretty blue dress and a matching halo headband.

Her father was standing next to a plate of armor, talking to a tall, imposing woman. The woman was exceptionally pretty, with brown hair the color of milk chocolate and hazel green eyes like a cat's. Her figure was lean and muscular looking, and her dress of violet and gray complimented her slightly tanned skin perfectly. Behind her stood a little blonde angel, wearing a dress similar to Christine's, only the color was a forest green. She, too, was taller for her age, and though somewhat chubby, she was definitely growing to be a beauty. Christine's eyes narrowed, but widened with delight when she saw Charles.

"Papa!" she screamed, nearly tripping herself as she ran into his arms. "Oh, Papa, you are home!"

Charles scooped his daughter into his arms. "Yes, yes, I am home. And how is my little troublemaker?" he laughed, his gray eyes sparkling. "Get into a load of trouble when I was gone?"

Christine grinned. "Oh, loads, Papa! Why, just an hour ago I beat up that insufferable fop Raoul!"

The tall woman smiled slightly. "I see what you mean, Charles. She really is a little spitfire, just like Meg."

Christine wrinkled her nose. "Who are you?" she asked disdainfully, eyeing the blonde girl.

The blonde girl grimaced. "I'm Marguerite, but if you call me that, I'll rip out your two front teeth. You can call me Meg."

"Meg!" the woman scolded. "Apologize!"

Charles dismissed her with the wave of his hand. "Oh, don't mind them, they'll get acquainted soon enough. Come, let me show you the gardens." He placed his hand over hers and led her through the room and out the doors.

Christine scowled at her. "I doubt you could. I could whoop you in a second."

Meg scoffed. "I'd like to see you try. It's a wonder you can see with all that hair in your eyes."

"And just what are you trying to say about my hair?" Christine shot back.

"It looks like a rat's nest, that's what."

"It looks better than yours. It's all dead and lifeless."

"Well, your dress is hideous."

"As is yours."

"You're not very nice."

"I could say the same for you."

"Toad."

"Harlequin."

Meg bit her lip. "At least I have a mum."

Christine's eyes narrowed. "At least I have a father."

Meg's eyes widened. Reaching up, she slapped Christine on the face. Christine let out a growl and slapped her back. Soon the two were rolling on the ground, punching, kicking, and grabbing each other's hair. Finally, they rolled over on their backs, and Christine looked over at the little blonde girl.

"You know how to fight?" she asked breathlessly.

Meg scoffed. "Of course I do." She paused for a moment. "Do you?"

Christine nodded, and a small smile grew on her face. "You know, Marguerite, I think we shall be the best of friends."

And so they were. Meg and Christine spent every day together, riding their horses, playing games of make believe, starting fights with the servant boys. Soon they developed their own little posse, consisting of several knights-in-training named Raoul, Christian and Phineas and two stable lads by the name of Edwin and Nicky. In the warm days of summer and fall, they would play in the castle's many gardens, playing games of pirates, knights, and Christine's favorite, Scotsmen. Christine would be the famed Erik McDestler, Meg her faithful partner William, and the boys their fellow knights. Christine and Meg secretly fashioned kilts out of leftover plaid material meant for dresses, and they wore them over their dresses, waving their swords about and running through the fountains.

When winter came, Antoinette swooped in. Since the weather was far too bleak and cold to play outside, she settled girls into lessons of ballet, etiquette and worked on grooming them to be perfect ladies. Meg and Christine threw many a fit, claiming they were not ladies at all, they were knights! Slayers of dragons! Rescuers of damsels in distress! They could not be held down! They could not! But all their protests and tantrums only made Antoinette press harder and come down harsher on their lessons. In due time, Meg's body had grown a wee bit thinner, so she was not thin as death, but her body was still soft. Christine's hair had been slightly tamed, though it still held its look of wild beauty. They had both become very talented in their dancing, Christine even more so in her voice lessons. Meg stood out exceptionally in her ballet, her body twisting and flying through air like a gazelle's. The two girls often stayed up into the late hours of the night, chatting amiably about the younger knights and dreaming of running off to Italy to join the opera.

Winter turned to spring, and the young girls found themselves starting their games again. However, it was all for naught, for the three young knights had been called away to finish their training at King Edward's palace, and the two servant boys found themselves too busy to play with them. So Meg and Christine comforted themselves with the company of each other, dancing, singing, reading and walking through the gardens to make up for their games.

Antoinette bustled over to Christine's boudoir, making her jump and release her memories. "Antoinette, what is so important that you must wake me at this time of the day?" Christine asked, yawning and stretching her long arms above her head.

Antoinette rummaged through the closet, looking through the mass of dresses Christine usually refused to touch. She preferred the simple frocks to the binding dresses most ladies of the court wore. "Child, it is much past dawn, hardly early! Your father enquires to see you within the hour, for there is an extremely important matter to discuss."

Christine rolled her eyes and plopped down in front of the vanity. She picked up a silver brush and studied it. "Let me guess. Another bloody suitor?"

Antoinette shook her head, her tight braids from her bun whipping her face. "_Non_. But he insists you dress in a gown, not one of the peasant dresses you and Meg insist on wearing."

Christine started to run the brush through her mess of curls. "They're comfortable, and so more…free. I hate wearing gowns." The brush caught a snag in her chestnut hair and became stuck. "Madame, if you please..?"

Antoinette looked up from where she was studying the gowns and laughed. "Ah, yes, my dear." She brushed the tangled mess with skilled expertise and in a matter of minutes had it up in a graceful bun. "Now, I'm thinking the rose colored gown will look the best on your frame. Since you had your bath last night, I won't have you take one, but I would advice you to spray on a small amount of the scent your father brought you home from Paris. It smells most enchanting."

Christine wrinkled her nose. "What, that? It's better suited for a woman twice my age." Seeing the bemused expression on Antoinette's face, she quickly apologized. "I only mean, I think something more natural would be in order, like.." Her eyes trailed the room, settling on a vase of roses sitting on the sill of a large window. "Perfect." She strode over to where they were sitting and picked one up. Crushing a few of the petals in her hand, she delicately ran the sticky substance over her wrists and behind her ears, leaving behind a sweet and earthly smell. Christine lifted her wrist to her nose and breathed in the scent and smiled.

"Christine!"

Christine turned around. Meg was standing at the door, her lovely lips turned up to an excited smile. She leaped over to where Christine was standing at the window, managing to knock down several bottles and a brush in her wake. Christine smiled. Usually, Meg was quite graceful thanks to all the dancing, but whenever she was truly excited she was terribly clumsy. Antoinette reprimanded her daughter in rapid French, but Meg was too joyful to take shame from it. "Oh, Christine, it is wonderful! You'll never believe who is here?" She didn't wait for her best friend to answer. "Raoul! He's come home from war! Raoul's home!"

Christine's smile grew bigger. Ever since childhood, Meg had adored Raoul. However, she was going through what she liked to call her "beastly stage" so he took no mind of her. Since then, she had grown to be a beauty: tall, graceful, lithe and curvaceous, her blonde hair falling down to her waist in delicate waves. She was the eye of many a lord, like Christine, but had turned down numerous marriage offers in order to save herself for her childhood sweetheart. "Did you see him? More importantly, did he see you? Tell me _everything_, and don't you dare leave anything out!" Christine led her friend to the bed, where they plopped down side by side. Antoinette shook her head and walked out of the chamber, muttering in French.

"I saw him, but he didn't see me. Oh, Christine, he is so handsome! He's gotten so tall and muscular and regal!" Meg gushed. "I am so glad I refused Lord Bartleby's proposal last spring, for I wouldn't have the chance to see him now!" Meg gave a sigh and lay down on the bed. "But who am I kidding, he'll never find me pretty. I'll always be the large one who couldn't walk on her own feet without tripping."

"Meg!" Christine exclaimed. "Don't say that! You're beautiful, one of the fairest maidens in the kingdom. Why, I'll bet if the prince didn't enjoy the company of men to women, he would have proposed to you in an instant."

Meg gasped, forgetting her pining of the young knight. "The prince is..?" She blushed and giggled.

Christine nodded. "Yes. He told me so himself. But he's being married off to that French princess. Do you remember seeing her? She was the pretty petite one."

Meg's brow furrowed. "Yes, I think so…was she the one with that dashing Russian lord?"

Christine smiled and the two girls sighed simultaneously. Lord Viktor was one of the most handsome men in all of Europe, with a strong build, soft black hair, a beaked nose and hypnotic blue eyes. He was descended from the Czar himself, and every lady who was unmarried or not promised continually threw themselves at the handsome, dashing man. He had a terrible reputation though, and Charles went out of his way to make sure that the two young ladies came in no contact with him. Even so, they spent the entire night giggling over him. The two girls sat in silence for a moment, staring off into nowhere with dreamy expressions on their faces until Christine broke the silence. Christine threw a hand over her mouth and screeched. "Papa! I'll be late!"

Meg rushed around the chamber with Christine, helping her step into the gorgeous gown, tying a ribbon into her bun, trying to help her find her slippers. Christine stumbled into the hall and ran down the stairs, nearly tripping over the hem of her long dress. She stopped a passing servant in the hall. "Where is Lord Charles?"

The servant tried not to giggle at the lady's appearance. "Last time I saw him milady, he was in the drawing room."

Christine started down the hall again and remembering her manners, quickly turned her head and yelled, "Thank you!" to the servant. She simply smiled and shook her head. Lady Christine was really such a darling girl.

Christine stumbled into the drawing room, causing Charles's head to snap up. She quickly straightened and adjusted herself. "Apologies," she muttered. Her father sighed and he rubbed his temples.

"Christine, come here," he beckoned. Christine gulped and slowly made her way over to where her father was standing, trying to appear as regal and ladylike as possible. "Quickly!" She ran to where he waited by the large window overlooking the sea.

"Yes, Papa?"

Her father was silent. He stood tall and stiff at the bay window, resembling the stone statue King Edward had made of him after Charles and Christabel wed. This shocked Christine. Her normally laughing, smiling, joking, musical father was as silent and cold as a piece of metal. Christine had very rarely seen her father like this: once after a devastating battle, and at Phineas's funeral. Phineas was a favorite knight of her father's, and he had died a hero in battle, taking a deadly blow for Charles. The elder knight never forgave himself for letting Phineas die. He allowed the young man's then-pregnant wife to live at the castle to raise her child. That was three years ago, and the little girl was the pride and joy of the castle. Christine loved her dearly, like the little sister she never had.

Christine waited patiently for her father to answer. Several minutes passed, and when he did not say anything, she quietly pressed, "Papa?"

Charles's gaze out the window hardened. "Scotland."

Christine did not understand. "What about it?"

"They've started a rebellion. Those bastards have started a rebellion. All because of that fool Edward implanting _prima noctes_. The idiot! How he ever came to rule is beyond me.."

That was the first time Christine had ever heard her father speak badly of the king, his best friend. "Papa, what are you talking about?"

Charles turned suddenly, putting his harsh gaze on Christine. "Isn't it obvious?" he boomed, making his daughter jump. "We're done for! Our castle is only across the sea, we're the most vulnerable!" His gaze soften as he saw how frightened his daughter was. "The Scots, Christine. The Scots. They feel they've been oppressed for far too long. They've risen up and started a rebellion. William Wallace, Hamish Stoneline, the McDestlers…" His face paled as he said the last three names. Charles covered his face and sunk to his knees. "Oh, God, McDestler…"

Christine's brow furrowed. "The Scots? McDestler? Papa, what on earth is going on?"

Charles looked up at his daughter in fright. He stood up quickly and grabbed her by the arms. "Oh, God, Christine! They'll come after you first! You and Cedric are the only important things in my life right now, and God knows what would happen if they…" He buried his face in his hands, letting out a sob. Christine pulled her father into a hug, rubbing him on the back and whispering soothing words. Charles pushed away suddenly and looked at the young girl in front of him. "Marriage," he whispered. "Aye, that's it. Marriage." Charles straightened his tunic and looked his offspring square in her brilliant blue eyes. "Christine, my dear girl, it's time this tomfoolery has come to an end. You will be married by the end of the fortnight."

**A/N: So, what do you think? I first wrote this back in January, but never really decided to publish it until I stumbled across it a couple days ago. I did my research, and although ballet didn't originated until the 15th century, I really wanted Meg and Christine to dance in some form. And, with my being a ballerina, I thought, "Hey, why not stick to the Leroux plot and make them ballerinas?". So, please bear with me on this timeline blashphemy, and review?**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you to my three lovely reviewers! Historical innacuracies, don't you just love them? :) Though I feel I need to clear some things up…Lord Charles wasn't talking marriage allience to Scotland, he just wants to marry his little Christine off as soon as possible before the beautiful Scots invade. Ooh, Scottish men in kilts…ahem. Sorry, just dreaming ;) But our lovely warrior Erik is making his first appearance in this chapter!**

**Well, I'm not going to keep you from the chapter anymore with my blabbering. Here you go!**

_**In the Name of the Father**_

_**Chapter Two**_

"Erik?"

Erik's head snapped up, his focus broken. He registered the face before him. "Yes, William?"

William's brow furrowed. "We need ta get movin'. Night will be fallin' soon."

"Aye," Erik muttered, turning his gaze back to the hills before him. "It'll happen soon, Will…aye, it will."

William shook his head and turned to the men before him. "Pack up yer things. We be movin' out within the hour." William felt awful for what his army was about to do, but it was crucial for the rebellion. And the nobleman who took his Murrin was rumored to be staying there for the fortnight… William shook his head and wiped at the tears prickling at his electric blue eyes. He wouldn't think of Murrin now, not until they reached the castle. A strong hand came down upon his shoulder and he looked up to see Hamish standing there.

"Thinkin' o' Murrin?" he asked quietly. William looked out to the sea and nodded.

"The doctor…he said she was pregnant…" Will trailed off, and fresh tears started in his eyes. "I'm such a fool…all this is m' fault…"

"Don't say that, Will," Hamish soothed. "The English 'ave 'ad it comin' for centuries now. They're bastards, the lot o' 'em, and it's time we showed 'em just who they be messin' with."

William wiped the tears trailing down his cheek. "You're right. We need to get movin' if we wanna make it before sundown. Where's Lachlan?"

Hamish nodded his head to where Will had left Erik. Lachlan stood there with his brother, a hand clamped on his shoulder. The resemblance between them was striking. They stood tall and imposing, towering over many a person at 6 feet 5 inches. Their handsome faces were identical, save for the wrinkles starting to form on the elder's, and the white half mask covering Erik's face. William shook his head. The poor English knight had no idea what was coming to him.

Erik's face was stony as his brother approached him. "Are ya gonna be okay?" Lachlan asked quietly. The elder brother was worried about his younger sibling. His normally hard-faced, cold-hearted brother and fellow knight was looking across the sea with something that looked like a cross between hatred and sadness. Lachlan knew a part of Erik died the days his parents were brutally murdered and Briana left. Though his appetite was usually small, he had gained several pounds of pure muscle from the brutal training he had been putting himself through for this fight. Lachlan was well aware of the battle Erik was going to fight with that damned Englishman, and he was going to be there to help kill the bastard.

"I should ask you th' same thing," Erik whispered. His left hand flew up to where the mask was, stroking the smooth white plaster as if it would give him the answers to his question. "I only wish Brian was here too…"

Lachlan clapped his youngest brother on the shoulder. "I do too. We lost many a great man in that battle…"

Brian, the middle brother, had been lost in battle three weeks ago. It was a devastating blow to the two brothers, for Brian had always been the middle ground. He kept things light and humorous when a situation was dark, and he was able to stay serious when complications arose. He, like his brothers, had become a knight in honor of their parents, and had vowed with Erik and Lachlan that they would not truly rest until they avenged them.

Briana had been separated from them at the age of sixteen. A young lord from neighboring Ireland offered to marry her, and wanting to get away from the war and bloodshed of Scotland, she immediately accepted. The three brothers never saw their beautiful sister again, but she wrote them every year at the winter solstice, and the last they heard, she had two teenage children, a younger one and a babe on the way. Her life was perfect without them.

"I wonder how she is," Lachlan mused, reading Erik's thoughts. "I wonder if the war has yet affected her."

"Doubt it," Erik said gruffly. "She's safe, far away from this hellhole. Thank God fer that."

Lachlan nodded absently. "We must get goin', Erik. Night is comin' quick."

Erik turned to his brother. They met eye to eye exactly. "I can't wait to kill that bastard," he said quietly. Lachlan said nothing, but Erik knew he agreed with him. Erik turned to the rough men behind him, laughing and flirting with the village girls. "Pack up yer things at once!" he growled, making the women jump in fright. "We're goin' now, and we attack at sunrise."

"Ach, man! The Almighty says that's the spirit!" Erik jumped and whipped around to where the voice had come from. Stephen, the mad Irishman, was sitting on a large rock, playing some odd tune on the bagpipes. Stephen was quite possibley the craziest man the four men had ever come across. He came from their sister island of Ireland, claiming he was sent by his Father, the Almighty. He had many a conversation with him, also. Midway through their first battle, as Erik and William sat crouched below their makeshift sheilds, Stephen turned to them and told them,

"The Almight says he can get me outta this mess, but he's pretty sure you two are fucked." He tossed his head back and cackled like a maniac. Although the men had been wary of him at first, he proved to be a worthy warrior after killing an assasin sent to murder William. Stephen had no wife, but he had one child: a grown daughter, married to a sailor in Ireland. He talked often of the things she did when she was young, and it was obvious he loved her very much.

A wife and a child….in all truth, Erik would love nothing more. Well, besides seeing that bastard Charles dead, but that was beside the point. He had never fallen in love with a woman, because frankly, there were none in Scotland that suited his interest. And with that bloody fool Edward installing _prima noctes_.. well, there was no point in getting married to a Scot. Until they won their rebellion against the Brits, Erik would just have to wait.

Like most of the men, Erik wasn't afraid of dying for his country's rights. He was proud to be figthting this war for their people, but deep down, he was quite nervous. This was the bastard that had taken the life of his father, the one man he looked up to and treasured deeply. The man who had taught him to fight and ride his black stallion. The one who sat with Lachlan, Brian and himself on many a night by the fire, telling them of his great war adventures. His pa was a great man; a kind, handsome spirit, who never turned down any beggar who would show up at the door of their castle. He gave to the hungry of his village, and always had a spare moment in his busy day for his loving wife.

Erik's fists clenched. "The soddin' bastard…" he muttered, his lefthand coming up again to stroke the mask on his handsome face. The English soldier had given him this as a reminder of him…he had laughed cruelly as the blood ran down the young Scot's face. Erik knew the man had no heart, no soul, no remorse for what he did to his family that day so many years ago. And now, Erik had no feelings of guilt for what he was about to do to his.

_Meanwhile, across the sea…_

Christine lay with Meg on their favorite hiding spot, a grassy hill facing the sands of the beach. Their hands were intwined by their heads, which were so close together their hair was in danger of being tangled. Christine had long ago undone her bun from this morning, and her unruly chocolate curls were splayed across the soft grass. Meg's blonde hair had also came down from her simple braid and now had pieces of hay stuck in it from where they had napped in the stables. Their voices were low and soft; the two best friends did not want to risk their conversation being heard.

"So it's really true then?" Meg whispered. "You're going to be married?"

Christine sighed. "Yes," she mumbled. "To Lord Denby, of all people. For protection, Papa says. But my God, he's so old! Just think of it Meggy….you'll be here with Raoul and all the handsome knights, and I'll be stuck with that stuffy old man until he dies." A tear formed in her sapphire eyes and fell slowly down her smooth cheek.

"Oh, Christine," Meg sighed, turning her head to see the girl that had been like a sister to her for years crying. "Don't cry, Chrissy. He's, what, forty and five this year? He'll be dead before you know it!" she proclaimed, a bright smile forming on her face.

A small giggle escaped from Christine's mouth before being quickly dimished by one purely sobering thought. "Dear God, Meggy, I'll have to sleep with him!" Christine gasped. "If that's not punishment for all my years of mischief and prankery, I don't know what is!"

Meg's face quickly became dour. "Goodness, I certainly feel for you now. Did…did Mama ever tell you about what happens in…in the marriage bed?"

"Of course, Marguerite. She gave us both that conversation years ago, don't you remember?"

"No, no, about what _really _happens…"

Christine smirked at Meg's now-crimson face. "Yes, yes, Meggy my dear…we are to 'lie back and think of England!'" She mimicked Antoinette's very formal and educational voice perfectly, causing both young women to fall into raging fits of genuine, hearty laughter. This continued on for quite a few minutes, until they could no longer breathe normally and had to gasp for air. The silly smiles, however, remained plastered on their faces as they reintwined their hands, the clasp stronger and tighter than ever.

"Chrissy?"

"Yes, Meggy?"

Meg rolled over onto her side to face her sister. "Your father…is he marrying you off to Lord Denby for the sake of England…or is it for something else?"

Christine was silent for a moment as she chewed on her lip, thinking. "You promise not to tell?" Meg made a cross over her left breast, signaling Christine to continue on. "Father is afraid."

Meg cocked her head to the side, confused. "Afraid? Why would the strongest and bravest knight in all of Britain be afraid?"

"The Scots," Christine sighed. "Father has been told that the Scots are planning to invade, and he figures that if I'm out of the picture by then, I would be safer. But honestly, I don't see why he just doesn't send me to Cedric's castle instead of selling my youth away to some fat old man."

Meg's brow furrowed. "Yes, yes, I thought so." She saw Christine's puzzled face and continued on. "Well, you see, I went to go see Raoul today…and yes, Chrissy, I actually talked to him this time! I didn't just stare." Christine grinned at that proclamation. Usually the poor girl would just gaze at the young, handsome knight with heavy hope in her heart. "Well, after he got over the initial shock of seeing me, we started chatting about his upcoming 'missions', as he so bravely calls it. Oh, Christine, isn't he just the best knight ever?" Meg sighed, causing Christine to snort.

"Oh, yes, he's just the bloody best."

Meg shot her a glare before continuing her story. "Raoul told me that there has been word of a Scottish invasion here, and that's why they've been training like mad…not that I mind, of course." Both girls giggled as they thought back to the last few weeks of their knight-watching. The men had been working _very _hard, and they were usually _very _shirtless, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the ladies of the manor. "Anyways, he mentioned that he heard your father speaking with a few of the knights, who said they would be _more _than happy to take you as a wife. But, Lord Daae was insistent on you marrying Denby for protection against the devilishly handsome brutes, and that's all I know."

Christine sighed. "I would much rather have a group of devilishly handsome brutes kidnapping me than having a marriage to that old windbag."

Meg smiled sadly and patted Christine's hand. "I know, dear. I know."

_Inside the castle_

"This is an outrage!" The sound of Lord Daae's muscular fist hitting the wood table vibrated throughout the room, making a good number of knights jump. Charles Daae was normally a very gentle man (or at least, as gentle as an English warlord can be), but many of the men gathered in the Great Hall of Daae Castle knew of his temper. The temper, which was brought on by two things: the safety of his men, or the safety of his children.

Cedric was off to the south with his new wife in the estate of Lord Henry of Plymouth, so there was no doubt about it that he would be safe for the next few fortnights at least. It was Christine that Charles was really and truly worried about. His only daughter had an irrational temper and a tendency to voice her opinions at the worst times, and marrying her off to Lord Denby would only prove to be a failure at protecting her. Charles knew his daughter. If he sent her to Denby's castle before the wedding, she would find a way to escape. If he waited until the ceremony, the Scots would have surely attacked by then, and God knows where that would leave them. In reality, either choice would prove to be a danger for the young lady.

"We need a plan," Charles continued, his voice not quieting in the least. "The Scots could attack any day now, and where does that leave us?"

John, a large and hairy brute of a man, cleared his throat. "We've been training for many a fortnight now, sir," he said quietly, though his voice still manage to boom a bit. "We knights are stronger than we've been in a while. We know how to take these Scots down."

Charles shook his head. "No. No, you don't." He began to walk slowly around the room, plucking a walnut out of a young knight's hand. "You see men, men who can be easily taken down, easily defeated with a little hard knock on the head." Charles brought the walnut to eye level, studying it. "I see a reign of bloody mad brutes who would do anything, _anything_, for their country and for their freedom. As Englishmen, we have taken their wives. Their families. Their homes. Their livings. They have absolutely no problem with killing us. They care not if we have families or wives or homes of our own. What matters is their gaining their freedom back. And to them, we are just bugs on the path in front of them, waiting to be smashed…" Charles slowly drew his fist together, crushing the walnut. "…and they won't give us a second thought."

"So what do we do, m'lord?" a voice shouted from the back. "You expect us to be killed? To have our entire life taken away from us by some bloody brutes who can't take the law as it is meant to be? Or do you expect us to fight and defend our honor as English soldiers?"

Charles slowly uncurled his hand, causing some of the walnut pieces to flutter to the ground. "I expect you to kill them," he said quietly. "Kill every last one of them, before they kill every last one of you."

An audible silence fell over the room. A few of the younger knights appeared to be scared out of their trousers, while the majority of the older ones simply looked shocked. They, kill all those madmen? From what the knight at Edinbourgh had sent back to them, the Scots measured at fifty, possibley sixty strong. Gathered in that room were thirty tops. They couldn't send for backup now, for by the time the message would reach London, it would be too late. The knights, looking around at each other, knew what they had to do.

They were going to fight to the death with those brutes. And it was going to be one hell of a battle.

**A/N: So there you go! Not as long as the first, but I hope that this explained a bit more. Next chapter calls for a Scot-English battle! Oh, the death! The tradgedy! The bloody muscular men! Sigh…**

**Reviews help kick my butt in gear!**


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